Hope for a Better Future
by EnvysMistress
Summary: A Sherlock 2x3 fix-it. Spoilers for series! John finds out the truth about Sherlock's fall from glory. Possible Johnlock. Don't like, don't read. Also, rating may change later on. R&R please. To quote my history teacher, "It makes me feel good", the creeper. :) 3/12/13: Sorry, but I'm going to put this on a long Hiatus. Not motivated to write this.


_Hope for a Better Future_

Chapter 1

I watched as he threw himself off the rooftop. He had lied to me, telling me he lied. Sherlock was forced into this, forced into death, and it's not hard to figure out the details. Moriarty must have cornered him somehow. Maybe those snipers? He would have told Sherlock to jump or get shot. Both would kill him, would publicly disgrace him. Then, to protect me, he lied, he lied through his teeth. For me.

I ran the second I saw him step foot off the ledge, trying to reach him, stupidly hoping to catch him. His coat flapped in the wind as gravity sucked him closer to the pavement below. As I crossed the road, not looking for vehicles, a bicycle crashed into me, knocking me to the tarmac. I looked at Sherlock as I scrambled to stand, stared as his body smacked into the ground.

Bystanders crowded around his body, around the paramedics, to watch the dead, sudicial genius, Sherlock Holmes. I felt tears pouring down my cheeks, clinging to my chin, to the underside of my jaw. I knew he was dead even before I saw his body being loaded on the stretcher. I shoved through the on-lookers. "he's my friend, he's my friend!" I heard myself cry.

People looked at me funny, but allowed me through. I kneeled next to Sherlock, his eyes an unusual electric blue, wide and skyward. I sobbed as I saw them, unseeing and bloodstained. Then he was lifted away, leaving only the pool of blood, already cold and beginning to congeal.

I pushed myself off the stone path, past the passersby, and into the ER. When I inquired about Sherlock's body, they directed me to Molly's lab, her morgue. I ran, choosing stairs over the lift. It would be impossible to stand still, all the adrenaline running through me; I had to move.

I burst through the morgue's lab doors, the familiar double doors that Sherlock and I had ran through so many times before. Molly was standing over a body, Sherlock's body. She held a vial under his nose. A familiar vial. Back in Afghanistan, out in the field, soldiers carried a vial of smelling salts for emergency revial of unconcious persons. And Molly was using them on a dead body.

Molly jumped and spun, just as Sherlock's body groaned, or rather, Sherlock himself. I shoved Molly out of the way as she stammered and stuttered at me. Sherlock was retching now, hanging over the edge of the body tray. There was a convienently placed bucket for him there. Sherlock was too out of it to notice me, staring in shock and awe at the undead man. There was no other explanation for how he could have survived that gruesome fall from glory. Or the rooftop. Either worked.

How I could find humor in all this, I didn't have the chance to ponder, for at that moment, Sherlock sat up and looked around before focusing on me, eyes wide like outside, but in surprise, not death. "John?" His voice was hoarse and confused. He was still bloodied and his eyes hinted at their previous bright blue colour. His hair was matted to his head and his hand hinted of a recent, and likely painful, dislocation.

I didn't answer him, but reacher forward and grabbed just past his wrist. Out loud, I counted in warning, "One... _Twothree!_" and snapped his wrist back in correctly.

"_AH!_" Sherlock jerked back in pain and shock. "Damnit, John! What was that for?!" Sherlock held his hand cuddled to his chest. I knew I could have been gentler, but Sherlock didn't deserve JACK with a side of SQUAT. I didn't answer him, but turned to Molly instead.

"Steroids, painkillers, tetunus, iron, saline drip, electrolytes. No tea; he'll bleed out. Swollen temple, steel nail in arm, glass in leg. He had a dislocated wrist. Pressure wrap." With that, I finished my diagnosis and treatment instructions, and turned on my heel, heading for the door. Sherlock called out my name, and I nearly looked back, but I ignored him and kept walking. _He deserves it, _I told myself firmly, _and everything else he has coming to him._


End file.
